Do Not Stand at my Grave and Weep
by Jean Hicks
Summary: "Of course, when one's best friend has just come back from the dead, one can hardly complain about reading him poetry." A story of reappearance, reunification, and the start of forgiveness. Set three years after the Fall, spoilers for Series 2. Guest appearances: Mary and (of course) dear brother Mycroft. R&R and enjoy!


**AN**: Another strange story of second-chances. I felt the need to include Mary only because this started as a one shot of their marriage but moved into a reconciliation between Sherlock and John. Spoilers for Series 2, of course, and could be Sherlock/John if you wanted it to be. More info after the text. Please read and review!

* * *

They're having dinner, the two of them sitting across from each other at the expansive wooden table in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street. She was too tired from work and a lack of sleep to cook, so she brought home curry from the Indian restaurant around the corner. She knew it was John's favorite. He hadn't slept well in a few nights, up and down with nightmares. The last nightmare had him screaming a familiar name, and he woke with tears in his eyes. When she tried to comfort her husband he snapped, throwing his body from the bed and going into the living room. Moments later she could hear the crying strings of an old violin. John doesn't know how to play, but it gives him comfort.

Her mind returns to the kitchen. She notices that her husband's eyes are sunken, face pale. He looks haunted. This man, this grieving man, is the man she fell in love with two and half years ago. He was grieving then too, but a part of her though that she would give him a reason to be happy again. They would fight the demons together and the memories would fade and John would smile that brilliant smile all the time, rather than the few occasions it graces his face now. A year and a half (nearly to the day) after saying "I do," Mary realizes that this was a foolish thought.

She asks him about his day at the surgery. His eyes brighten for only a moment and he tells her it was fine, relatively simple. He gave a lot of vaccinations because school is about to start again. He asks her what she did and eats his curry as she tells about working the coffee shop and then writing a section of her coming novel. He nods his approval and she smiles. "John," Her voice is soft, which he recognizes isn't necessarily a good thing. Mary is an open and honest woman, a writer who always speaks her mind, and never really softly. He has another mouthful of curry in his spoon, but he hesitates. His hands shake.

"John, you haven't been sleeping well, love…" He harrumphs and looks at her with narrowed eyes. _Your point?_ "Perhaps it's this flat. Perhaps it's time we find a place of our own. Ms. Hudson can rent the flat to another man and…"

"No." This is the end of the discussion. He will not leave Baker Street. He will not leave this last reminder of his best friend. The home where the violin sits on the window sill and the skull still sits on the mantle. He has cleaned the kitchen and removed the body parts, he's repapered the wall, and he's even moved some furniture. He has not touched the other bedroom. The space is plenty fine for Mary and John… _and Sherlock_. John's mind adds. _Sherlock's still here._

"John, please, you have to see reason. You're holding on to the remains of a dead man. It's been two and a half years. It's time to move on!" Mary's voice is raised. He knows she's tired, and he knows that she thinks leaving will be best for him, but leaving Baker Street would kill him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, John imagines that he will walk into the living room one day and _he_ will be there, playing the violin. _Terribly sorry, John, I didn't mean to be gone so long. _Some nights John wants this dream to be reality so strongly that he can hear the phantom measures of music drift through the air to their bedroom, and he awakes with a start and rushes down the stairs, only to be painfully and shockingly disappointed when the tall silhouette of Sherlock Holmes isn't illuminated by the moonlight through the window.

With a determination that John has always respected in his wife, Mary makes the final ultimatum. In a way he knew it was coming since they returned from their honeymoon and the air of Sherlock hung so heavily in the house. "I refuse to continue to compete for your love with a dead man."

His curry has gone cold, but his hands are no longer shaking.

He looks at her and he doesn't have to speak because his eyes tell her it was never any competition. He loved Mary, yes… but not in the same way he loved Sherlock, never in the same way. John is fiercely loyal, and while he would protect Mary as best he could he would never walk on fire for her. He walked into Hell for Sherlock a hundred times over. It's a simple inequality that tells them everything they need to know. She starts to cry. John wants to apologize, but he's not really sorry. Marrying was a poor decision and he can see that now. What had Sherlock told him once after their interactions with the Woman? Oh yes… _All hearts are broken._ If anything John wonders if he's really begun to go around the bend… Mary has left the table and he can hear her in the bedroom removing clothes from the dresser.

Mrs. Hudson walks into 221B not long after Mary has hailed her cab and left with the small suitcase filled with her belongings. John is still sitting at the kitchen table, staring into the distance. She's not his housekeeper, but she starts the kettle on to boil. She sets a cup of tea in front of him. He can feel the warm, light weight of her hand on his shoulder, but she doesn't speak. Then she's gone and John is alone… well, as alone as he can get in this flat filled with ghosts.

* * *

Six Months Later:

It's three in the morning. Mycroft isn't sleeping, but he can't help but think this is a terribly inconvenient time for someone to ring his buzzer. He checks the camera from his computer desk as the buzzer rings again. The whiskey glass in his hand crashes to the floor and the amber liquid spills onto the carpet. He stares at the profile of the face in the black and white feed, stark and pale against the night sky. Mycroft is convinced he must be dreaming, convinced he's actually nodded off at his desk and is at this very moment creating a very resounding, very realistic image of the person ringing the door buzzer.

He must be dreaming because that person is most definitely his brother, and his brother is most definitely dead.

Whiskey soaks into his sock. It's unpleasant and a reminder that he is _not_ dreaming. Mycroft Holmes reaches out and presses a button that will open the door. He puts his hand in prayer position under his chin, drawing in peace from the familiar pose. The visitor takes the stairs to the study slowly. Mycroft can hear his feet echoing off of the wood, each step heavy, burdened, pained. He breathes deeply to calm his hummingbird heart… _Now is not the time to jump to conclusions, Mycroft_. Inwardly he scolds himself, closes his eyes as he hears the latch for the study door turn.

All is silent. Mycroft opens his eyes and locks gaze with the visitor. He assesses quickly. Most definitely his brother… _Sherlock!_ _Alive!_ His mind screams, but he betrays no outward emotion. Height is the same, if one accounts for slumping shoulders and tired posture. Sherlock has lost weight he didn't have to lose. His cheekbones are too sharp and his eye sockets too sunken. The right side of his face is clouded with black, angry bruises and there's dried blood down his chin from what Mycroft assumes is a broken nose. Shallow breathing, sign of a chest injury? He's favoring his right leg, which means his left must be paining him significantly. He cradles his right arm to his side, and there's blood—lots of blood, more blood than could possibly be his brother's—on his white button down shirt. His coat is dirty, scarf frayed. His long hair needs a proper wash and Mycroft wonders if it's only matted with dirt of if there's blood there too.

He looks as if he's been drug through Hell and back behind the carriage of Death himself. The assessment takes all of ten seconds. Ten seconds of silence as his dead brother stands in his doorway. Bright green eyes have never left Mycroft's face. Mycroft stands. The air is thick. Not for the first time since Sherlock's death is the older Holmes at a loss for what to say. He opens his mouth, shuts it again. Twenty-five seconds have passed.

Exactly thirty seconds after walking back into his brother's study and back into his life, Sherlock utters two words, "It's over," before his long body topples to the floor in a graceful yet contorted heap.

* * *

Sherlock won't wake up. Mycroft has him cradled between his arms, and his brother is so light it's ridiculously easy to carry him down the hallway and lay him in the bedroom. Sherlock groans in pain and turns his face towards Mycroft as he's released, but his eyes don't flutter open. Mycroft knows they should be going to a hospital, but this man is supposed to be dead, defamed, a fraud. Even though it has been three years, taking Sherlock into public may cause more of an uproar than currently necessary.

With gentle hands Mycroft removes the coat, scarf, and boots. He peels back dirty socks reveling blisters and dried blood. Sherlock had been running, a lot, and the thin silk had worn through. Mycroft shakes his head, tosses the ruined socks in the bin, and with a clinical detachment continues undressing his brother. He slips each white button through its hole and the fabric of the shirt is stiff with blood. He undoes the cuffs, noting that his brother's wrist is swollen and angry- probably broken. He removes the shirt exposing Sherlock's chest. Bruises near the right side of his ribcage make it look like he's been hit with a pipe or bat. The shirt joins the socks in the rubbish.

Last to go are Sherlock's trousers which Mycroft removes with excruciating care. They've been cut open on the left side. The fabric has stuck where the knife had cut a two inch gash into this thigh that was still sluggishly bleeding. "Sorry, Brother." Mycroft says softly and pulls the offending fabric down past the wound. Sherlock clenches his stomach and then releases it with a hiss of breath. His eyes remain closed.

Mycroft throws the trousers away and reaches over to his dresser to grab a pair of pants. They are too big for his small sibling, but they will cover his decency and are better than the leftover rags Sherlock seems to be wearing. With the pants replaced and at least somewhat covering Sherlock, Mycroft retreats to the expansive bath and fills a basin with warm water. This isn't the first time Mycroft has washed Sherlock. In the throes of drug addiction the messes were usually vomit and shit and piss, not blood and dirt and God knows what else.

Of course, when one's brother has just come back from the dead, one can hardly complain about having to give him a sponge bath.

The bath is given in short increments because Mycroft has to empty the bowl of filth and refill it with hot water so often. He avoids the major injuries—the leg, the wrist—and washes the rest of the man carefully. He can almost trace each rib on his brother's chest, but luckily none of them seem broken. He washes his brother's face and traces his nose, which needs reset. Sherlock lets out a gasp of pain at the pressure, but he's still asleep. Mycroft is secretly thankful.

The last thing he washes is Sherlock's dark, curly hair. It's a strange sight to see Mycroft perched on his knees behind Sherlock's head, supporting it over a basin as he runs glass after glass of hot water through the locks. He works out the mats with his fingers and tries desperately to be gentle. He massages a clean smelling shampoo into his brother's lock and Mycroft could swear he hears Sherlock sigh in appreciation. He returns from emptying the basin a final time and finds Sherlock with his eyes open on the bed.

"Mycroft?" He asks, and his voice is very small. His eyes are bleary, exhausted. "Are you a dream?"

"Funny, Brother, I asked the same thing when you arrived on my doorstep two hours ago." Mycroft is surprised to find his voice so strong, and as he watches the relief fill Sherlock's eyes, he has a sudden urge to personally destroy whoever hurt his younger brother. _Holmesian revenge, _he thinks, _is a very powerful thing._

Sherlock sleeps again not long after his moment of consciousness. Now that the man is clean, a hospital seems much less necessary. Still, he needs a doctor to set his wrist and nose, as well as stitch up his leg. Mycroft has only one thought as to who that doctor should be. He steps out of the room and fetches his mobile from the study. The sun is rising, around 6 AM then. He hopes John is awake.

* * *

At first John doesn't want to answer the phone. He's only just nodded off to sleep. Mary had left six months ago. She had never come back. He feels the absence of his wife—_ex-wife_— in his heart, but logically he knows it's the best decision she could make. She deserved to be happy, and John wasn't going to make her happy. He spends most of his evenings and nights lying on the sofa, alternating between sleeping and thinking. The violin lazes by his left hand and the bow hangs limply in his right.

His mobile buzzes again and he realizes the sun is rising. John swings his legs around on the couch and his stiff knee groans in reply.

_Come immediately. –MH_

John snorts disgracefully. Three years and Mycroft has kept in touch usually by watching the events at 221B through the CCTV he never bothered to take down after Sherlock's Fall. If this is some offer of employment or pity, John doesn't want it. He is about to put the mobile down but it goes off again.

_If inconvenient, come anyway. –MH_

Followed almost immediately by another message.

_Bring medical supplies. –MH_

_Please. –MH_

He has to admit that those are a bit alarming. Add to that the fact that using the world please is such an unusual characteristic in a Holmes and you have all the makings of a disaster. Take Sherlock. "Just… Do as I ask. Please." The words are clear enough in his brain that it's as if they are being whispered in his ear. It takes him only seconds to realize he can't really say no to Mycroft's request.

_Fine. –JW_

Fifteen minutes later John is bounding out of a cab towards the eldest Holmes' estate. Mycroft is standing in the entry, waiting. "What's the problem?" John says. He had figured Mycroft was injured… why else would he ask for John to bring the medical supplies? But Mycroft looks healthy as always, if just a tad bit shaken.

"Thank you for coming. There's a bit of a _sensitive _issue I would like you to assist me with, but I'm afraid it might require a bit of explanation." Mycroft pauses and lets John pass him as he motions up the stairs. "Unfortunately, I don't really have an explanation at the moment."

John raises and eyebrow and Mycroft finds himself smirking. "Taking torturing into your own home now, Holmes?"

"Ahh… I'm never one to get my hands dirty Doctor Watson. No, this is a much more… delicate matter." He pushes open the bedroom door and John lets out a sharp gasp as the bag in his hand hits the ground.

"This isn't funny, Mycroft." He grits out the phrase through clenched teeth. "Whoever the fuck that is… whatever you're on about…. this isn't funny."

Mycroft pushes past him and advances towards the bed. "No, I suppose it isn't." In the time it took John to arrive, Mycroft has changed into his standard suit and tie and manages to look calm though he's still a tempest inside. "But John, this is my brother. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but this is Sherlock." John's eyes are wide, he's having trouble breathing. He can't reconcile if his heart is about to burst from joy or anger. "And right now he needs a doctor... he needs you." Both men have migrated to stand by the bed. John reaches out to touch Sherlock, but his hang recoils.

"He doesn't need me." The words hang in the air and Mycroft stays silent. He knew this would be hard on John. John had been living with, literally living with, the ghost of this man for years and to suddenly have him reappear whole and alive if not entirely healthy was mind numbing. "Oh Christ, Sher…" His voice catches and he takes a deep breath. _Detach for now. You're a doctor, damn it, figure it out later_. "Oh… what have you done?" John retrieves his bag.

"I take it you can fix him… I cleaned him and undressed him when he first came but… I have no idea how to fix that." Mycroft gestures at the leg which has almost stopped oozing blood and then to the wrist crossed limply over Sherlock's chest. "Plus I'd rather him not lose his nose… he did have a very distinctive profile."

John nods, almost afraid to speak. "How long has he been here? What did he say? Has he woken?"

"Three hours, about. He walked up to my study, collapsed and has been sleeping ever since. Except for a moment when he asked me if I was a dream." The doctor collects the information, files it away even as his hands are checking Sherlock over.

"I should give him a heavy painkiller, for resetting the nose. It'll be difficult to do without an x-ray but I can manage. It'll hurt him if I don't sedate him. Luckily the wrist isn't broken, I don't think. Badly sprained, twisted, but I shouldn't need to cast it."

Mycroft nods and walks to his closet. John stares after him a moment and then he returns with a chestnut box. "Sherlock's drug kit…" He offers by way of explanation as he opens the dusty lid. "Cocaine for the days when he's bored, morphine for the days when he's…. not. I wouldn't usually call for such drastic measures but I don't think him waking up to you snapping his nose would be the best for either of you, yes?" John eyes the drugs with suspicion. They were a part of Sherlock's life before he was, and he's wary of them. Still it seems the only option to keep Sherlock pain free for now. He nods and Mycroft begins to prepare the injection.

"He's lost weight, but I think he should be fine. No signs of emaciation. He's probably exhausted, and he should sleep it off in that case, at least for a bit." He talks as he would to a clinician. He's trying desperately not to think that the man beneath his hands is his best friend, his dead best friend. Sherlock Holmes… the man who died and lived to tell the tale…

* * *

Sherlock is bandaged and sleeping in morphine induced haze and John is staring down at his prone form from the foot of the bed. He jumps when Mycroft speaks because he didn't hear him come into the room. "He'll expect to see you when he wakes, John." He hears the undertone, _Stay…_

John shakes his head. "I… I can't." He runs a hand through his hair. "I can't, Mycroft."

"You'll at least wait with him until I return." It's no question; Mycroft isn't giving him an option. "I have to deal with some paperwork and inform other interested parties of Sherlock's… miracle." John thinks of his final request to Sherlock.

_One more miracle. _

Well, here it is. Sherlock living, breathing, and laying in front of him… his friend, colleague, and great detective... He's back. The ghost he's been dancing around since the Fall is now a fully fleshed human being. Here's the miracle John asked for, and he knows that if anything was going to convince Sherlock to jump off of a building, to fake his own death and hurt them all so badly it had to have been important. There had to be a reason. Right now John had to decide if that reason was good enough to repair three years of heartbreak and anguish. He didn't even know the reason… was it enough?

He thinks of the day of the Fall, watching Sherlock clad in his wool coat on the roof of Saint Bart's. The tears were rolling off of his cheekbones and down his face—honest tears, not the fake tears John had seen him use before. Sherlock must have known he wouldn't die that day, but could he have been certain about every day after that? What was he really saying when he said…

"Goodbye, John." Mycroft interrupts his thoughts and is out of the door before John can protest. He sighs and then goes to pull a chair from the study into the bedroom. It's nearly eight and he should be getting ready to go into the surgery. He gives Sarah a quick call and she seems frustrated but he finds he really doesn't care. He's missed work for less since Sherlock died… _No_, John reminds himself, _not dead. Alive._

He harrumphs and flops ungracefully into the chair, burying his nose into a book Mycroft just happened to have lying around. He tries to read, honest he does, but he can't. His eyes keep flitting back to the prone figure lying in the bed.

It's been a few hours. John stands and goes to take a piss, and when he returns the soft voice nearly makes him jump out of his skin. "John." It's barely a whisper and if John didn't know any better he would have though he imagined it. He turns to face the voice. His heart stutters. Beautiful shining eyes have him pinned. Sherlock, awake and bright eyed if a bit beaten everywhere else, licks his lower lip. John feels anger and sadness alternate in his chest. "John." Sherlock says again. "Is it you?"

The doctor nods, unable to speak. Tears well in Sherlock's eyes and begin to trace his sharp cheekbones. John wants so badly to wipe them away, to touch him, but he remains rooted to the spot. "Oh God…. it's over." Sherlock tries to contain his sobs of relief. "I need to sit up. I need to see you. Come. Please…" John cannot physically move. He wants to (doesn't he?) but his feet won't let him. He feels fire burning in his chest. "Please…" He's worked his way into a sitting position forgetting his pain in his urge to get to his blogger.

John is struck with the sudden feeling that he will vomit. "No." He gasps through a mouth that won't take in any air. He turns and prepares to run… he can't face this right now. He can't face Sherlock. But something stops him. It's the sound of a heart breaking.

"John. I know you're angry." The words come out in a rush and though it must hurt the curly haired man cannot stop. "And you have every right to be but John, please, don't turn away from me. This was all for you John. All for you. He would have killed you. Christ. Please. Oh God John, don't turn away from me. Not after this. No… No…" Sherlock is becoming frantic, his eyes wide and searching. He's still crying but more silently. He cannot catch his breath. His long fingers clutch at the sheets in a desperate quest for some kind of ledge to hold on to. He gasps twice and then looks dead into John's eyes. "John, I'll die if you leave me."

It is a grand admission. The room is stagnant. Both men are breathing quickly. "You lied…" John manages to croak. "Let me believe you were dead… I mourned you. Every. Damn. Day." He spits the words from the door.

"He would have killed you. And Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Three bullets, three friends. All of you dead if I didn't die, John. I had no choice." Sherlock's voice is quiet and now he can't meet John's eyes. John can't speak again. "I watched you. At the funeral, at the graveyard, in the flat. I watched you whenever I could. You married. You weren't happy. I knew it but you didn't." John snorts unattractively, still Sherlock even when he was trying to be repentant. "I watched you and it gave me _hope_, John. Hope I had someone to come home to. And if you take that away…. I've done things…" He takes a breath and then lets it out.

"I thought I didn't have feelings, but I do. God, it hurts. I've killed men, women… anyone standing in Moriarty's web I've brought down or succeeded in expediting their eventual demise. All so you would be safe. I beat a man's head in with my bare hand…" There are ghosts in Sherlock's eyes and John is drawn closer to the bed, but neither man realizes that at the moment. "Covered in blood and tears and I thought of you, in the flat, of seeing your smile and drinking your tea, of being _us_ again… and I've killed for you, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. And if you leave then it will be for nothing."

"The last man, Moran, two days ago. I came home, John, as soon as I could… and I wanted the meeting to be ideal and beautiful but he was a bit stronger than I expected. So this is what I have, John… please don't turn away. I know what they say about me, but if you leave I'll die. It's too much." John wonders if it's the drugs making Sherlock talk so openly. "Say something… please…"

A warm hand reaches out and clasps John's wrist. John looks down at the man in the bed and sees mottled bruises and pain and tears and sorrow and openness. So much openness it breaks him. "Oh, Sherlock." John breaths softly and sits down on the edge of the bed. The detective launches himself toward the doctor and grasps him around the waist like a child would their parent.

"Easy now, you've got a lot of healing to do…" He places a hand on Sherlock's back and is relieved to find it isn't awkward. The fire in his chest has dulled to a small ache. Sherlock is sobbing again. "Easy now… it's fine. It's all fine." John mutters nonsense and rubs soothing motions onto the tall man's skin. He rests his chin into the black hair and breathes in its scent, clean and expensive and very Sherlock.

After a while, Sherlock's crying subsides. He sits back and finally appears to notice his state of undress and his too large pants. _Mycroft's_. He blushes and uses his better hand to pull the sheet around himself. John watches him carefully for any signs that the whole thing is a ruse. Sherlock can be very manipulative when he wants to be. He sees none. "Move your chair here, John, please."

John smiles slightly and gets up to re-position the chair. "Would you like a glass of water?" He doesn't wait for Sherlock's answer, just goes into the bathroom and fills a glass with cool water from the tap and presents it to his recently reunited friend. Sherlock thanks him. John smiles again. "You're not forgiven, you know?" For a moment Sherlock's face falters and John feels his heart flutter with it. "But I'm not leaving, Sherlock. I promise."

John sits and Sherlock is tired but he won't admit it. The book John had been reading is still lying on the seat of the chair. He picks it up. "Read to me?" Sherlock asks in a sleepy voice. Normally John would not indulge him.

Of course, when one's best friend has just come back from the dead, one can hardly complain about reading him poetry.

The doctor begins:

"Do not stand at my grave and weep  
I am not there. I do not sleep.  
I am a thousand winds that blow.  
I am the diamond glints on snow.  
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.  
I am the gentle autumn rain."

Sherlock has taken his hand and he can feel the warm light weight of it around his fingers. He squeezes, gently, reassuringly, and tries to keep the tears from his eyes. The ache in his chest calms. He breathes deeply and continues:

"When you awaken in the morning's hush  
I am the swift uplifting rush  
Of quiet birds in circled flight.  
I am the soft stars that shine at night.  
Do not stand at my grave and cry;  
I am not there. I did not die."

* * *

**AN: **Thanks again for reading. Poetry comes from the wonderful Mary Elizabeth Frye. I jostled with making it Poe, but found this one and it fit the feeling I wanted for the ending pretty well. I may add a second piece exploring life back at Baker Street, but perhaps not. Let me know what you think and as always, best wishes!


End file.
